13. 18. 59.

Unease is almost always simply that. A feeling of anxiety or discontent. Mr. Baker lives alone, and it’s something he knows well. 

There is a house, at the end of a cul de sac, in the middle of a quiet town. It's an old colonial two-story, with high ceilings and ivy-covered walls. A mature willow perched on the front lawn. The graying paint has chipped off most of the exterior as if nature’s way of saying,

“Life once existed here.”

But the truth is, it’s a simple house. Most people driving past wouldn’t even double take. The faded grayish purple shutters stay shut. The foggy windows always closed. It’s a simple house, on a simple street, in the middle of a simple town. And while it wasn’t always the case, nowadays Mr. Baker lives there alone. Nowadays, storm clouds seem to loom over the old colonial. No signs of life exude the decrepit thing, besides a subtle breeze occasionally shaking the ivy, or rustling the branches of the old willow out front. 

In 1912, this house looked different. Still simple, of course, but different. The shutters were freshly painted, in a shade of fragrant lilac, picked out specifically to match the hydrangea bushes. The willow tree in its prime was a sight the neighbors truly enjoyed. There was no ivy, the grass was kept after, and sometimes on really breezy days, you could smell cinnamon buns warming in the oven. Only if you walked by at precisely the right time. Only if you were lucky. In this house, in 1912, the sound of laughter was constant. Neighbors would come and go as they pleased. Parties were thrown for every minor occasion. It was a lively house then. The house looked different, but it felt different too. 

See, Mr. Baker didn’t always live alone. He grew up the way many people do. He had a mom, dad, and a dog named Scout. He sat front pew at a Southern Baptist church every Sunday. The steeple, a sign of the cross, in the middle of the town. He could recite the scripture like the back of his hand, and he believed it word for word. He graduated on time and joined the forces fresh out of high school. A marine, per his mother’s request. Waiting at home for him was 25 year old Annie Jo Myers. She was older than him, sure, but neither one of them seemed to mind. It was just a couple of years. Mr. Baker loved Annie like white on rice. He loved her with every fiber of his being. Every atom of his existence. Their souls were the same because God had made them so. The pair had a love story that could rival the great Shakespearean tragedies. So in 1912, twenty six year old “Annie Jo Myers” became “Annie Jo Baker”, twenty three year old Mr. Baker became a husband, and that little two-story house at the end of the cul-de-sac became a home. Time was spent well, furniture was arranged and rearranged, and pictures were hung on every wall. The place truly felt alive. It was the type of place you’d go to when you needed company, not the type of place you wanted to avoid. Everyone knew it.

“Spend a day with the Bakers, and by the end of it, your cheeks will hurt from smiling so much,” the neighbors would proclaim. 

As things continued for the couple, by 1914, Annie was employed in a factory. Working was her choice, of course. Mr. Baker hated the idea of her “laboring away for a living” (as he called it), especially when he had money. But Annie was strong-spirited, and no one’s to argue with that. Least of all, her doting husband. Annie wanted to help the war effort. Give back any way she could to support the cause and all. Having already served, Mr. Baker re-upped his campaign, surviving until the war ended. He lost friends, soldiers, loved ones, etc, but for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he survived. Some would argue that this fate was worse than death. Some would argue he’s a survivor. This feeling of survivor’s guilt and confusion would slowly become a constant for Mr. Baker, eventually becoming more centrical than he would care to deal with.

While still reeling from the war, and spending time with her newly returned husband, slowly but surely, Annie Jo Baker’s factory work crept up on her. The effects of which, no one had seen coming…

“On January 26th, 1920, at precisely 11:42 am Annie Jo Baker passed away in the arms of her loving husband. Surrounded by family and friends, Annie left peacefully to walk the golden streets with the Lord up above.” 

Or at least, that’s how the obituary printed it. It’s how Mr. Baker wanted it framed. What the obituary failed to mention was that Mr. Baker could be heard from streets down, pleading with his maker to leave Annie Jo Baker alone. Mr. Baker had been forced to deal with more deaths in the past four years than many people will see and deal with their entire lives. January 26th, 1920 is a date Mr. Baker will remember for the rest of his. Annie’s death started it all for him. Her death marked the start of the story of how Mr. Baker, a once enthusiastic husband, became Mr. Baker the sole neighbor at the end of the street. Annie's death was the death of Mr. Baker's peace of mind.  

Eventually, as the years passed, Mr. Baker grew solitary. He found new employment, became friendly with all the baggers at the local grocery pick-up, and kept attending services the way he used to. That steeple, the sign of the cross, became one of his favorite sights. After all, Annie Jo Baker was buried closely nearby, in the front field of the old Southern Baptist. Mr. Baker was no longer angry that Annie was gone. Sure, his grief seemed relentless, but the anger was no longer there. As he fell into a widower’s monotony, 1920 slowly became 1930, and 1930 in time, became 1940. Through all of his endeavors, he never met anyone who could’ve held a torch to Annie. Because of this, he decided it best to stay alone. He loved his wife, and finding a new one was the last thing he wanted to do. Besides, the house at the end of the cul-de-sac was their house. It was the Baker’s. They painted it together. They picked pictures out of catalogs and arranged furniture in a way that they both agreed on. How could he bring someone new there? Have them move the furniture and rehang the portraits? No, to Mr. Baker, Annie was still alive in the house. Maybe not literally, but he could feel her in his surroundings. So he stayed alone, and he kept things the exact way his Annie Jo left them. 

“It’s what she would’ve wanted,” he’d think to himself.

“I couldn’t possibly switch things up now,” became his argument. 

Sooner or later, his feelings about this house became obsessive. On days when he felt worried, scared, or just not fully.. there.. he’d go around and count. The doors, the windows, the pieces of furniture spread about. He knew where everything was because everything had its place. Mr. Baker lived in a house with 13 doors, and he knew this well. Seven on the first floor, six on the second. The front door, the door to the pantry, the laundry room door. Each door has its place, and he liked it because it was something that couldn’t change. It’s why he liked the windows as well. There are 18 of those. He knows because he counted them. Each of the bedrooms has two. The living room has four. So on and so forth throughout the rest of the house. The one thing he didn’t like was the odd number of furniture in his house. 59. End tables and arm chairs, a dresser in the master bedroom, 59 pieces of furniture. But he couldn’t switch things up now, so instead, he counts them. It calms him down. 13 doors, 18 windows, 59 pieces of furniture. It was always the same. Sometimes he’d mess up, and when he did, he’d start all over. It was his routine. In order for it to “work” he had to get it perfect. Each one on their turn, and only on their turn. He’d count the doors first, starting from the front door. He’d move through the first floor, making sure not to forget the pantry. The doors upstairs were easy, just the bedrooms and the bathroom. Once finished, he’d make his way back downstairs, and then he’d start counting the windows. Relatively simple as well. If he forgot one and had to go back, he’d have to start the entire routine anew. See, there was this little window above the sink in the kitchen, and Mr. Baker would forget it at least once a week. Something about his short term memory or his psyche. But on the days he remembered to count it, he was able to move on to the furniture. 

Sitting in the center of the living room was a sectional Annie had picked out a week before she left. It was his favorite part of the house, even now 20 years later. He liked the feel of the cushions, the pattern on the fabric, and the way the wooden legs didn’t leave circles on the carpet. The sectional was mis-sized and honestly a bit too big for the quaint living room. Over 20 years, it became dated. The style of it was no longer in. There was a rip in the seam on the pillow furthest to the left and the pattern on the fabric didn’t match the graying wallpaper. But it was Annie Jo’s, so he loved it. No other couch or loveseat could replace that. Not in his mind at least. He had thought about replacing it many times. Once even making the trip to the furniture store. However, while standing in the section with the couches, he swore he heard Annie Jo whisper,

“Why do you want to get rid of me?”

So he left, and he went back home, and that sectional is still sitting where Annie Jo left it. Because to him, replacing it is replacing her, and he would never do that. When counting the furniture, he always starts there. As if a subtle nod to the fact that Annie Jo is still the center of his life. The center of their house. He starts with the sectional and he goes around until he counts all 59 pieces of furniture. Maybe this routine started as a good thing, but obsessiveness is hard to break once you’re in it. Perfection is a nagging and demanding habit. Like a drug, you use it once, and you’re hooked. You start the routine, and you have to perfect it. This habit of counting became Mr. Baker’s idiosyncrasy. It took over his life the way most addictions do. Over the course of a few years, Mr. Baker went from leaving his house a few times a week, to never leaving his house at all. For Mr. Baker, all he knew was that the house at the end of the cul-de-sac was theirs. He and Annie had shaped it the way they wanted, and because of that, he could still feel her within it. She was there, in that house, and he wanted to be with her forever. There was no changing that now.